


A piece of my memory

by Del (goddessdel)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8779531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Del
Summary: His memory of Irene Adler is perfect.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written: 1/9/14-8/20/16
> 
> Rated: E
> 
> Takes place during/after "The Sign of Three".
> 
> I swear at some point there was plot, but it turned into an extended PWP instead. /not sorry
> 
> Many thanks to Beverly and Tali for looking this over. All remaining mistakes are always my own.
> 
> With special love to Lyra because great minds think alike.

His memory of Irene Adler is perfect. Exact. After their first meeting he filed her measurements - in detail. By the end of the Bond Incident, she occupied a permanent space in his mind palace, accessible by entering the correct key code on her phone, which was sat neatly on his bedside table. It was not  _sentiment_ , he told himself, but triumph. A reminder of The Woman who had come so close to besting him - closer even than Moriarty - a trophy in honor of both her skill at playing him and her eventual defeat.

  
Even before Karachi, she had begun to fill an entire room in his memory palace, accessible only via her phone. A room hidden behind discrete false paneling in his bedroom.

 

Admittedly, before Karachi, his memory of her was not as accurate as it could have been. That was not  _sentiment_. He just preferred his memory to be as precise as possible. And given that he had been fooled by her body double, he knew that a more thorough study of her was required.

 

And he had plenty of opportunities to study her _thoroughly_  in Karachi and after.

 

Now she lived in his mind down to the finest nuance and flaw. He could conjure her at will.

 

Of course, being The Woman, she quickly began to take over.

  
It was subtle, at first - items from her room appearing throughout his mind palace, as though she had just set them down after wandering the corridors of his memory.

 

The Woman was not content with that for long.

  
Soon she was strolling through his mind palace at will, distracting him or helping him at her whim.

 

He refused to admit it was a symptom of missing her. That every time she appeared in his mind his fingers itched toward his mobile, demanding he seek her out. That too often, he gave in and did just that.

 

His extended holiday, as Mycroft referred to it, had been covered with The Woman. Her scent still lingered on his mind, even once he'd scrubbed it off his skin.

 

For one brief moment at John's wedding, ensconced in his mind palace and trying to find the connection - figure out what he's been _missing_ \- he wants her desperately. The Woman would have seen through those chatroom women in a heartbeat - found their likes and weaknesses and connections. He can do it - he will do it - but for just a moment, he wishes she were there. When everything is on the line, he's become too accustomed to being able to utilize both their minds - to her finishing the connections where he's found the initial linkers.

 

It's not even fully conscious. He's panicking a bit, he knows - Mycroft's presence in his mind palace is a sure indication of that. He's been so careful to make sure that John's day is not ruined by anything, and now someone is in danger - likely him or John or, god forbid, Mary - and he'll never forgive himself.

 

He scoffs when she appears before him, _out of my head - I am busy_. But her presence - the reassurance of her touch, steady and strong against his skin - acts as well as her slap to focus him. The Woman is unconcerned - even if it's just The Woman in his head - which means he must have already figured it out, or he will do shortly.

 

Sherlock takes a quick breath through his nose - breathing in the memory of The Woman's scent just as she fades from his sight - and, just like that, his focus is restored.

 

...

 

He thinks of her as he plays the violin - he always does. Far too many of his compositions relate to her - not that he'd ever admit to that little fact - so that The Woman and his violin have become irreparably intertwined.

 

He can see her sat to the side, intent and enraptured, as she'd watched him play on the inferior little instrument he'd picked up at some point on his Holiday. He can almost see her now, tucked away amongst the guests - but no, that is dangerous. Even Sherlock knows that letting The Woman escape the confines of his mind palace would be to invite chaos.

 

He brushes that nagging thought away and focuses all his attention on John and Mary instead, observing. Of course, occasionally his deductions get away from him, and this is no exception. A baby. The signs are obvious. It is - unimaginable, really. If ever he's been around infants that information has been deleted. To imagine John with one - well. He does have eight months and five days to become accustomed to the idea, depending on how true Mary stays to her due date. He shall have to do some research.

 

He slips away shortly after that. Honestly, he's already interacted with more than enough people to last him weeks, if not months. And he's been on his very best behavior, which is terribly exhausting. The aborted murder was a pleasant enough distraction but, on the whole, he is relieved that John appears to be well-suited to Mary and will likely never put him through this charade again.

 

He checks briefly on Janine - he seems to be well on his way to earning her trust. Good. And then he turns and escapes the melee before Molly can notice his discomfit. Molly is entirely too perceptive and her fiancé is feeling his inadequacy rather acutely already. He has no desire to drive a wedge in her relationship. Nor does he particularly fancy explaining what - or, more accurately, who - is on his mind.

 

He's halfway across the lawn before a figure slips out of the shadows. "Leaving so soon? I love weddings - there are always so many opportunities to misbehave."

 

His mind spins out rapidly. Ah - of course. That glimpse in the corner - the faces at the tables in the dining room. Someone that John wouldn't glance twice at, even (especially) at his own wedding. "Really? John's second cousin Myles seems rather an unlikely partner for misbehavior."

 

"Myles is hardly the partner I had in mind."

 

He crosses briskly to join her, taking in her large hat and subtle (but highly effective) disguise. Her locks are blonde now - wig, short, purposefully unflattering. He ends up nearly pressed against her, both of them carefully obscured by shadows. The rapid beat of something that could only loosely be called music pierces the still air, concealing the laughter and chatter of the guests on the other side of the wall. "It's John's wedding. I have to behave." His voice comes out low, the way it always does around her, and tinged with amusement and regret. Her definition of misbehavior is always most entertaining.

 

The Woman stares up at him for a long moment - neither quite willing to make the first move - before she reaches up and runs one finger along his cheekbone and jaw. It's a gesture that is both intimate and familiar. It started as an apology for slapping him - admittedly, he'd richly deserved it - and then had become something of their _hello_. Just a bit mocking - _I could cut myself slapping those cheekbones - would you like me to try?_ \- and perhaps a bit _sentiment_.

 

It's not lost on him that this is the same touch - the same hello - that he'd imagined from her earlier. Though she'd been wearing considerably less in his head.

 

The Woman's smirk matches his. "Well, the wedding is over now. All your best man duties duly discharged."

 

She pulls back slightly and he follows her automatically, pressing her further into the alcove and bringing his hands up to tug off the - frankly, hideous - hat and wig combination. "Not quite all of them. Something about shagging a wedding guest? I believe it is tradition."

 

The Woman's breath hitches slightly, though her voice sounds somehow both clinical and mischievous. "The maid of honor seemed interested. Janine, was it?"

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and echoes her earlier words deliberately. "Janine is hardly the partner I had in mind."

 

One of his hands comes up to rest against the wall next to her head, the other slipping around her waist out of habit. The Woman arches into him but keeps her own hands at her side. Her wig is collecting leaves at their feet. "And whom did you have in mind? There was quite a choice brunette at table five -"

 

He cuts her off, irritated. "Must I really say it?"

 

Her eyes spark, challenging. Her lips are candy pink instead of their favored blood red, drawing his eyes as they form around the word, "Yes."

 

Her hands finally rise to trace across his tie and the edges of his waistcoat before curling around the button to his tails.

 

The moment stretches. Sherlock holds her gaze stubbornly, jaw clenched. It makes no difference - these little games they play - but their pride does not allow them any alternative. He bends as if to brush his lips against hers before turning his head to her ear instead. "Ms. Adler." Her name is the softest of whispers - a secret too dangerous even for that - and yet it rings clearly between them.

 

"Mr. Holmes," she replies in kind, her skilled fingers twisting the button of his tuxedo free as she draws him closer.

 

They're pressed neatly together, cheek to cheek. Her breaths ghost across his ear in rapid, shallow intervals. He can feel the lines of her body beneath that ridiculous dress as her hands snake under his coat and tails to rest against his back. "May I have this dance?"

 

He feels her answering smile against his cheek and words are not required. The Woman shifts her hips against his, a motion that can only be considered dancing by virtue of the fact that they are both fully clothed. "What a risqué choice of song, Mr. Holmes."

 

Sherlock pushes them fractionally off the wall before bringing his hand to rest at her shoulder. The Woman's hands remain firmly planted against this back, her nails digging in against the fabric of his waistcoat as her body presses against his. He doesn't recognize the song but the overloud base and movements of The Woman are more than enough to convince him to take her at her word. It hardly matters - asking her to dance would have been a mistake anyway, if dancing had been his intention.

 

He lets her lead, swaying against her. He does like to dance but this has nothing to do with dancing. He'll have to take her out to a ballroom - in an appropriately distant and war-torn country, of course. "Have you ever been to Pyongyang?"

 

"Is that an invitation?" Her hands slide upwards in slow, teasing strokes.

 

"Perhaps," he acknowledges. "Baker Street is empty. Mrs. Hudson has imbibed far too much champagne and will be spending the night and much of tomorrow at her sister's, recovering."

 

The Woman must be able to feel the rapid beat of his pulse, pressed as close as they are. With their arms wrapped around each other, were they anyone else, it would almost be considered a hug. Her hands clutch at him as she teases, shifting in his arms. "And here I was, looking forward to sneaking into North Korea."

 

Sherlock shrugs, straightening. His hand slides from her shoulder to tuck a loose strand of hair out of her face and behind her ear before he can suppress the gesture. Making up for tugging off the wig and upsetting her perfect coif, he tells himself as her eyes follow the movement of his hand. "Hijacking a flight tonight would be murder. Perhaps in the morning."

 

The Woman grins, wicked again - her sense of humor is as macabre as his. She arches up on her tiptoes in what she must consider dreadfully low three-inch heels - clearly missing her preferred footwear. "Oh, but it's terribly rude to keep a girl waiting."

 

Her nails dig against his skin through his clothing as his hand slides around to the back of her head, fingers tangling unrepentantly in her hair. They're perfectly still - not _dancing_ anymore. The Woman tilts her head and bares her lips, just scant millimeters from his own, the candy color shining wetly. Sherlock takes a quick, sharp breath through his nose to regain control. He knows it is a mistake the second her scent reaches him - her disguise does not extend to her perfume - she was hardly trying to fool him, after all.

 

This close, he inhales The Woman - bold and unfettered. She still favors Casmir fragrance, and the strong sandalwood hits his nostrils like a familiar caress, coming on the tails of fruits and jasmine. After she'd borrowed his coat, he'd catalogued each individual component of her perfume in detail. Her scent had lingered there for weeks - Casmir and The Woman and mystery. He can smell the slight salt of her sweat now - too long in heat of the wedding reception - a scent that brings back vivid memories of sticky hot nights in Islamabad and Morocco - Jordan, Cuba, Greece, more.

 

She tastes vaguely of candy - the lip gloss - and mostly of the wedding wine that Mary had so detested. The 2008 Sauvignon Blanc is vastly improved by The Woman as her mouth opens under his.

 

The Woman is dangerous. She consumes him - occupies his mind - makes him lose his head. She is the addictive euphoria of tobacco and the sharp clarity of cocaine in synergy. His focus centers completely on her. The feel of her body pressed against his - she's wearing a corset under her dress, though the steel does not mask the infinitesimal changes to her dimensions since they were last this close - calculations that he meticulously adds to his file collection. The rate of her pulse - elevated - and the heat of her mouth against his.

 

She withdraws first. A soft smile chasing her lips as she drops back to the ground and presses her ear over his heart - no doubt racing. Sherlock is still catching his breath as she offers, "I grew bored of Egypt."

 

It's a feeble excuse at best and they both know it. He'd texted her about the wedding minutiae in a fit of pique and she'd come without his asking. He rests his chin on her head, considering. "Too easy to charm the rich out of their wealth?"

 

He feels her chuckle before he hears it. "Too easy to get beheaded for trying."

 

"We can't have that." If his arms tighten fractionally, briefly, The Woman does not mention it.

 

"We might, if anyone stumbles out here." She sounds amused.

 

Still, they part. The Woman bends neatly and retrieves her wig and hat, brushing them clean, as Sherlock straightens his clothes and redoes his tails and coat. He dislikes physical contact, as a rule. With The Woman, it makes no matter.

 

"I doubt it would be as quick as beheading," he counters, already scanning the courtyard carefully, cataloguing and double-checking the known locations of the wedding guests. "There's a vintage Ashton Martin at the far end of the drive."

 

The Woman arches one eyebrow but nods, and Sherlock turns straightaway to cross the drive. He takes care to keep his steps purposeful but not hurried, and he does not look back.

 

He'd pocketed the keys as part of his role as best man. He adjusts the seat and mirrors and temporarily disables the GPS tracking whilst he waits. The Woman slips through the passenger door after precisely the interval he'd expected. Sherlock throws the car immediately into gear, making a sharp exit that is masked by the revelry inside.

 

The Woman reclines in her seat and smirks, her eyes on him instead of the road. Sherlock watches her from the corner of his eye as he navigates the darkened country lane.

 

"Absconding with the happy couple's present from Mycroft, how daring." She tosses the hat and wig carelessly to the floor at the word, kicking off her heels and stretching luxuriously despite the clutter.

 

"They're spending the weekend at the hotel. I'll have it returned before they require it."

 

Really, Mycroft could have bothered to appear rather than simply sending his cars over to act as transport for the wedding party.

 

"Not exactly discrete," she points out, though she doesn't sound even the slightest bit concerned.

 

Sherlock shrugs mildly, one hand tapping restlessly on the steering wheel even as the speedometer climbs. "The more brazen one is the less people notice if one misbehaves." He snorts. "You taught me that."

 

He can feel her smirk in her voice, though he doesn't deign to look. "So you did pay attention to my lessons."

 

"Well, the whip was rather distracting."

 

She laughs and Sherlock realizes he has missed the sound. It is impossible to recreate in his mind palace - the exact warm, liquid tone; equal parts pleased and provocative. His lips curl up in response.

 

"I didn't think you were so easily distracted, Mr. Holmes."

 

Her hand caresses his over the gear lever. Just the correct side of indiscrete - and only that because she actually is mildly concerned about him crashing the car if she distracts him; she's merely testing to see his response. It's fortunate that she doesn't intend to distract him, at the speed Sherlock is driving. Not that he is rushing on her account - it would just be a shame to waste an empty road and willing passenger on the posted speed limit.

 

"Is now really the time to test that theory?" One of his fingers catches hers as he shifts for a corner.

 

The Woman leans across the negligible space of the car until her breath is tickling his ear. "You tell me." A very willing passenger, indeed.

 

Sherlock keeps his face neutral, scoffing, "Child's play." But his foot eases off the accelerator infinitesimally.

 

Her hand slides across the tented front of his trousers, slowly and deliberately. He's hard, of course. A state that doesn't normally trouble him but appears to be a natural consequence of being in The Woman's vicinity. He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose at her touch. "There are very strongly worded guidelines advising against such activities in a motor vehicle."

 

The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they were the wrong ones. The Woman will take it as a challenge, not a warning.

 

She smirks up at him, amused, even as she undoes his dress trousers with ruthless efficiency. "Far be it from me to ignore strongly worded guidelines."

 

Her warm, candy-coated lips slide over his cock to punctuate her sentence. For all his earlier bluster, there is a 50% chance that he will crash the car in that moment. Sherlock fights to keep his eyes open at the sensation, his foot pressing down on the accelerator.

 

It takes him several seconds to compartmentalize and reassign some of his focus toward the road. The Woman waits until his foot eases off the accelerator and his hands unclench around the wheel. And then she begins to move.

 

The challenge of focusing on driving when his body is demanding his attention elsewhere is exhilarating in a way that Sherlock would never have imagined but of course The Woman must have expected. There's no hesitation or teasing in her motions, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks him with a delightful pressure and swirl of her tongue.

 

Sherlock risks a quick glance down to find her all but smirking up at him with his cock in her mouth, and he has to immediately return his gaze to the road before they really do crash. It's taking a considerable effort to keep his foot steady on the pedal and his hips against the seat.

 

"Third," he manages, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his suddenly dry mouth.

 

She understands immediately, shifting gears when he depresses the clutch, a task that requires considerable concentration on his part, as The Woman's rhythm doesn't let up.

 

They navigate the turn at a higher than recommended speed and Sherlock lets out a harsh breath from his nose, only grudgingly caring about driving because crashing would rather interrupt their current activities. He spares a passing thought to pulling off the road but that would be _losing_. "Fourth."

 

The Woman hums as she shifts, her free hand sliding down to stroke his balls. His entire body tenses, drawn right to the edge by her too clever mouth and fingers. There's a straightaway for at least a few more moments. A quick glance and calculation and he could probably drive it blindfolded.

 

Which is nearly put to the test - he barely lasts half the distance before The Woman swallows him all the way down, humming again. Sherlock grips the steering wheel as he comes, spilling down her throat with a ragged groan.

 

The unoccupied road goes briefly hazy in front of him, but his calculations serve to keep them on the road, drifting only marginally toward the center lane.

 

Careful to push just this side of too far, The Woman takes her time doing Sherlock's trousers back up. She wipes away her hopelessly smudged lipstick with her hand as she settles back into the passenger seat with a subtle shift of leather and a smug look. "Just something to take the edge off." Her other hand still rests casually over the gear lever.

 

"Mmm," Sherlock takes a moment to map their route in his head. As long as the road remains mostly deserted - a reasonable assumption given the time of evening and the frequency of travel on country roads - there should be enough time.

 

He slides his hand across hers and then keeps going, fingers walking across her thigh to slip under her skirt.

 

The Woman's eyes are bright and surprised. "Tit for tat, Mr. Holmes?"

 

"Just something to take the edge off."

 

The angle makes anything too bold impossible, but he manages to twist his wrist until his fingertips can circle her clit in precise strokes across satin.

 

Her soft sigh of pleasure replaces whatever she'd undoubtedly planned on replying. Clearly, she had also appreciated the danger of their recent game.

 

"Then by all means, do proceed."

 

There's something especially challenging to bringing The Woman off. A fascinating combination of technique and creativity that is better than composing. Better still because, in the game between them that is constantly changing, it feels a bit like winning to see her shatter so completely beyond her careful control.

 

Driving a motor vehicle at high speed whilst doing so is just the next logical escalation, though Sherlock admits that a logic other than the one they uniquely share would likely disagree on boring grounds of safety.

 

There's less chance of him crashing the car but it's also more difficult to please The Woman with barely full use of one hand.

 

Not that Sherlock has ever shied away from a challenge.

 

He twists his wrist until his fingers slip under her knickers, sliding through the slick skin he finds there. It's a complicated compilation of equations and innovation to bring her off. Careful rotations of his wrist and strokes of his fingers until she's writhing under his hand, her knuckles white over the gear lever.

 

"Fifth," he growls, voice betraying him with its low tenor.

 

The Woman makes a strangled, pleased sound, caught low in her throat as she shifts, his knuckles buried inside her.

 

He dares quick glances at her expression - head tossing against the cool leather of her seat, legs splayed wantonly - but he can see her in his mind's eye even when he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road.

 

There's an explicit danger in their coupling like this. Combined with the firm press of his thumb over her clit, it doesn't take long before The Woman is calling out her release, her moans lost to the overheated car and empty night.

 

He can't resist the smirk that tugs at his lip - the deep satisfaction that is more thorough than his own recent completion - as Sherlock wipes his fingers on the inside of her dress and withdraws, settling still sticky digits over her own on the gear lever.

 

The Woman straightens in her seat, though her hand does not leave his, even as he glances over to find her gazing out the window. Her reflection is amused though her pulse is still fluttering rapidly when he slides his thumb to her wrist.

 

"I'll have you right here, until you beg for mercy. Twice," she breathes, voice firm despite her shallow breaths.

 

Sherlock inhales sharply at her words, possibilities swimming across his vision. "I fail to see a scenario where that would not result in our untimely demises."

 

"Pull off."

 

Well, there is that.

 

The Woman unsnaps her suspenders deliberately, each one sounding like a gunshot, as Sherlock slams the car to a stand-still, just barely avoiding stalling as they skid to a halt half off the road.

 

The Woman wastes no time in shimmying out of her knickers and climbing across the front seat, her hands at his trousers. He'd be surprised to find himself hard again if it were anyone but her.

 

Sherlock has long legs and there's more than enough room for her between him and the steering wheel, even in the smaller spaces afforded to a sports car. The Woman straddles him with a vicious smirk, one hand in his hair, dragging him closer for a kiss, and the other around his cock.

 

Their kiss and coupling is as rough and desperate as if they were still driving. The Woman sinks down onto him in one quick motion, hips quickly rocking into a fast, demanding rhythm. Sherlock digs his hands into her hips, yanking her down hard against him with each downward stroke and thrusting roughly up into her.

 

She makes a strangled noise, teeth closing over his lip, and Sherlock breaks away to watch her unfocused gaze and sharp smile. The windows are fogging from their body heat, the stars blurred and distorted in their wake.

 

He is only spared a moment to contemplate their surroundings before The Woman's grip tightens on his hair. He follows willingly enough when she brings his head to her chest. It's a bit of a challenge to undo the buttons of her dress with just his mouth but well worth the effort when she hisses at each scrape of teeth against bare skin.

 

For all her earlier promise of begging, they're both too far gone already for something as obvious as words. Their begging is in the way her nails dig into his scalp and the fabric of his coat - the needy sounds she bites back - the way his hands clench around her hips and the marks he leaves across her chest and neck. Her corset is in the way and his tie is suddenly far too tight, but it would take far too much time and effort to undo either, all his attention occupied by The Woman, pinning him to his seat whilst he is buried inside her.

 

He's on edge again, adrenaline and danger twisted up with pleasure in a way that only The Woman seems to understand. To encourage. Still, he's not about to beg first. Sherlock shifts one hand between them, fingers rubbing her slick, swollen clit.

 

The Woman swallows something that might be a moan or a curse, dragging his head up until she can muffle the noise in his mouth, her hips moving punishingly over his with just that right edge of _too much_ that becomes _not enough_.

 

His recent orgasm and pure stubbornness allow him to outlast her, shifting in his seat to alter the angle of his thrusts until The Woman gasps and shudders over him, her nails digging into his scalp hard enough to draw blood. He pushes both of them relentlessly onward, fingers circling her clit and his thrusts increasingly erratic until The Woman clenches around him again, drawing out his own orgasm inexorably with hers.

 

She collapses across him, tearing her mouth from his to draw in short, heaving gasps that are mostly due to her corset but leave him feeling smug regardless. Sherlock takes the opportunity to trace his hands over the back of her dress, mapping it and the corset beneath. If the gesture could be considered soothing it is only because it is the most expedient method to determine the structure of her garments, not because he is mildly concerned that she might be pushing her own limits in addition to his.

 

Still, he can't resist smirking a bit. "I didn't beg."

 

"Didn't you?" she gives him a sharp, calculating look as she returns to the passenger seat, a flawless mask of perfect poise, even whilst her cheeks are flushed and her chest is scattered with dark marks.

 

The Woman extends her legs one at a time, slowly rehooking her suspenders with the clear expectation that he watch. She doesn't bother with her knickers, abandoned on the floor of his brother's car.

 

It's impossible _not_ to watch her, as much as Sherlock hates to give in to her expectations. He tears his gaze away after a long moment to refasten his considerably disheveled trousers. Her question still hangs between them - a reference to his request to dance at the start of the evening, perhaps, or the multitudes of ways their bodies have betrayed their _sentiment_ since.

 

"That's hardly begging," he scoffs a denial regardless.

 

But he's already reaching for the ignition.

 

...

 

They make it to Baker Street in one piece, though their return to London takes considerably less time than the morning's drive in the opposite direction, even accounting for their brief interlude on the motorway.

 

Not that their activities in his brother's car have sated them. If anything, it has only heightened his need for her. Sherlock parks the car boldly in front of Baker Street, too impatient to park elsewhere. He long ago found every CCTV camera within a five street radius of Baker Street. He keeps them permanently disabled via a variety of creative methods, from mundane physical blocks to more sophisticated hacking. From what he has gathered, it keeps Mycroft's IT department in rather a continuous state of panic. Sherlock makes it a point to keep them on their toes.

 

Besides, they're both far too indecent already for a long stroll through central London. They exit the vehicle with an exaggerated indolence to hide the urgency Sherlock can feel thrumming through his veins and see reflected in The Woman's eyes.

 

She smirks at him and plucks a pin from her hair before he can draw his keys, picking the lock to 221 Baker Street with more ease than Sherlock is entirely comfortable with. He'll have to change the locks again - if nothing else, it should provide her with a challenge.

 

They barely make it through the door before they are ravenous for each other again. Hands tearing at clothing as they stumble backwards up the stairs toward 221B.

 

He pins The Woman against the door to his flat the second it closes, skimming off her dress as she shoves at his tails. The Woman looks more like herself in her steel corset and expensive suspenders: her disguises never extend to lingerie.

 

Caught by an urge to taste her properly, Sherlock drops neatly to his knees before either of them finish undressing, pressing his mouth to her sex and breathing her in.

 

When he glances up, her smirk quickly edges toward a moan, surprise and pleasure flitting across her eyes. It's always an added thrill to surprise her - to prove that he's learned her games and surpassed them.

 

The Woman doesn't let him get away with more than a taste of her before she's shoving him forcefully back. He hits the floor with a thud, momentarily dazed, and her heel is over his chest before he can even think about rising.

 

Hands at her hips, The Woman smirks down at him. "Oh no, no, don't get up. I quite fancy you under my heel."

 

She looks entirely too smug but she's forgotten - he's not drugged this time. "I never come to heel." Sherlock reaches up and closes his hand firmly around her ankle, yanking. Unable to shake his grip, The Woman topples forward, landing sprawled across his chest.

 

"Brute," she accuses with absolutely no malice to her words as she shifts to her knees and crawls over him with a gleam in her eye that can only be called predatory.

 

Sherlock shrugs, "Dominatrix," encouraging her to shift higher, until he can bring his mouth to her sex again. It would have been simpler if they'd stayed as they were at the door. Expected, boring even. Nothing is as expected with The Woman, which is part of her appeal.

 

He should feel suffocated or subjugated by the position, but it's never mattered much which of them were on top - they never stop battling for control. With The Woman, he doesn't even mind losing.

 

He grips her thighs to hold her where he wants her, lifting his head and keeping one thumb pressed against her profunda femoris vein. She certainly has more experience with corsetry than he does, but they have been exceedingly active already tonight and it would be a shame to wind her so early on into their evening.

 

She's dripping wet against his tongue already, still sensitive and swollen from their escapades in his brother's borrowed car if the little noises she tries to stifle are any indication. He laps at her eagerly, her recent orgasms heavy and pungent on his tongue as he spreads her swollen lips open.

 

Sherlock presses his tongue inside her, licking at her walls and listening to her stilted breathing and muffled moans. There's no reason for her to stay quiet here other than to spite him - the same way he refused to beg in the car earlier. No matter - he always enjoys a challenge, as everything with her is.

 

His nose brushes her clit and she makes a sharp, whimpering noise, her weight falling forward until she can brace her hands on the floor. The change in angle allows him to spread her thighs wider with his hands, alternating thrusting his tongue inside her and sucking hard at her still over-sensitive clit, relishing her resulting shudder.

 

Keeping his thumb against her vein, timing the beats of her racing pulse carefully, Sherlock brings his other hand between her legs until he can press two fingers inside her, his mouth over her clit. Her sex is tight and fluttering around his fingers before he even curls them up, reaching for the spot that always makes her shatter completely.

 

A few quick thrusts, his tongue at her clit, and The Woman comes with that gasping, drawn-out moan of ecstasy that she'd first left as his text alert.

 

That's the sound he wanted from her - the one filled with dark promise and possibility. It goes straight to his cock, as much as he used to pretend to ignore the effect.

 

There's little point ignoring it now, with her release flooding his mouth and her voice muffled by her thighs over his ears.

 

After a moment to catch her breath and regain her balance, The Woman rises on limbs that still shake, her poise perfect even in heels. She steps neatly over him as though he were expendable - all part of the game - and kicks off her inferior footwear.

 

He regains his footing the second he is released, wiping at his mouth with his shirtsleeve and watching smugly as she crosses the room in just her corset and stockings.

 

The Woman comes to rest with one knee on his chair, gripping the back and giving him an expectant look over her shoulder, eyes dropping to her corset. "Can you manage to undo the laces?" Bored, superior, challenging.

 

"Why would I want to do that?" He's behind her in a few quick strides. Sherlock wraps the middle laces of her corset around his fingers and _yanks_.

 

The Woman's breathless, pleased gasp is musical.

 

She arches back into him, eyeing him sharply. "What makes you think you have a choice?"

 

Sherlock snorts, walking his fingers across her suspenders teasingly. "Because you like it when I misbehave."

 

The look she gives him is pure sin, even before she licks her lips. "Always, Mr. Holmes."

 

He feels a renewed surge of something purely physical, something that only The Woman can draw out of him, his fingers tightening on the laces to her corset entirely deliberately. Though they trade control between them like another bartering chip in the game, she rarely so freely offers it. Turnabout for her game in the car, perhaps.

 

Or perhaps he's learning what she likes.

 

The chair is the perfect height, which she must have known when she chose it. Perhaps she'd had this in mind all along.

 

Sherlock unfastens his trousers - he's already lost his tails and tie, but he can't be bothered to remove his waistcoat and shirt - his cock is heavy and throbbing already. Being with The Woman engages his mind and body concurrently in a way that nothing else has ever managed.

 

Not that he's about to let his body drive his actions. He squeezes her arse and slides his hand down her stocking-covered thighs, hooking a finger under her suspenders and snapping them sharply before moving on to splay his hand across her front, over her corset.

 

The Woman makes an impatient noise and pushes herself back into him, twisting until she can grab his hair and snog him thoroughly. His cock is caught between them, a tease of the friction promised inside her, and Sherlock finds himself stifling a low growl as her tongue invades his mouth and her hips roll sinuously against his.

 

He walks his hand lower, fingertips ghosting over her sensitive sex in a way that makes her tremble before reaching for his cock and lining himself up. He enters her with a long, slow thrust, the throbbing, clenching heat of her making his eyes roll back in his head.

 

He closes them instead.

 

The Woman makes a pleased, smug sound against his mouth, her hand still fisted in his hair, but their range of motion is compromised with her so close.

 

Sherlock tightens his grip on the laces of her corset until she gasps and releases him, eyes flashing. He shoves her forward until she catches herself on the back of his chair again, her nails digging into the leather instead of his scalp. She'll leave marks on his chair, but the thought is more satisfying than irritating.

 

He's careful to loosen his grip once he moves, leaning over her to wrap his free hand around her wrist, fingers over her pulse as he begins to thrust in earnest.

 

She rolls her hips roughly back against his, encouraging him to move faster, harder, gasps and moans spilling wantonly across her lips. He finds he can alter their pitch and frequency with the tightness of her laces - an experiment he delights in exploring to its fullest.

 

It's perhaps predictably exciting, more for the experiment than the nominal aspect of control. He has no illusions that this experiment is at anything but The Woman's sufferance. He considers whether she planned this very moment when she dressed for the wedding, donning her corset under her disguise on her way to find him.

 

Dropping his head to her neck at the possibility, Sherlock trails biting kisses along her deceptively soft skin. The Woman makes a feral noise, arching into him.

 

Sherlock works his way up her neck until his lips hover over her ear. "More?"

 

Her reply is instantaneous. "Yes." The single word is clearly a demand: The Woman doesn't beg.

 

It's no more complicated than the calculations whilst driving and no more dangerous. Sherlock measures her pulse and breathing, calculates her relative lung and heart function, and straightens. He brings her hand to her clit, careful to keep his fingers wrapped around her wrist.

 

And then he tightens his grip on her laces, yanking them considerably tighter and holding them there with his hand at her back. The Woman makes that delighted gasping, keening noise again, her fingers circling her clit and her hips rolling against his in a way that coerces a needy moan out of him.

 

He keeps a careful count in his head as her breathing becomes shorter and shallower, even as he snaps his hips against hers with increasing urgency. The countdown and risk considerably heighten the existing pleasure of their sexual encounters, and Sherlock finds his breath catching with hers, his pulse racing to keep up. Her walls already tightening around him, and he shifts his stance, trying to get deeper inside her with every thrust.

 

His fingers tighten and The Woman's breath catches completely on his next thrust, their hands tangled together as they bring her off. Two more thrusts and she comes completely undone with a stifled noise. Sherlock quickly releases the strings of her corset, loosening the laces until she can breathe again, her moan tripping over her gasps and her sex squeezing him desperately.

 

The Woman turns her head until she can catch his eyes, something cold and demanding and triumphant in hers, and Sherlock follows helplessly after her, his hips stuttering until his body is utterly spent. He stays upright only by his grip on her and his chair.

 

"There now," The Woman purrs, though her breathing is still labored, "You've misbehaved _and_ met your duties as best man."

 

_Something about shagging a wedding guest? I believe it is tradition._

 

Sherlock laughs, withdrawing from her regretfully and helping her off his chair. As he watches The Woman unhook her corset and suspenders, dropping the garments at her feet and stepping out of her stockings, thoroughly shagged and smirking, he reflects that perhaps some wedding traditions have their merit after all.

 

...

 

They eventually make it to his bed but they never really manage to sleep on nights like this. He sleeps when he's bored and exhausted and, whilst The Woman does her level best to exhaust him, he's certainly never bored with her.

 

He does wish his emergency cigarettes weren't all the way in the sitting room, though. The nicotine craving distracts him from recording their time in his mind palace - updating his data to reflect her new haircut and his considered study of how long it takes the flush of arousal to fade from her skin. The exact tightness of her corset to best constrict her breathing and the marks it left after.

 

"You like her," The Woman muses, apropos of nothing, her hand tracing deceptively idly across his chest.

 

Sherlock closes his files and brings himself fully into the room, drawing his head back until he can see her eyes - alight with mischief. "Whom?"

 

She's looking down at him with that smug confidence she gets when she's read him better than he wishes. "Mary."

 

"Oh - that." He tries to impress just how bored he is already by the conversation. Yes, he likes Mary. He had admitted as much in his speech, had he not? He does not want it scrutinized, especially not by The Woman.

 

"So - tell me, is she having an affair?"

 

Sherlock nearly chokes and quickly hides it. "What?" He narrows his eyes at her. "Why would you think that?"

 

She spares him a bemused smirk. "She's hiding something - the look on her face when you read the telegram from CAM. Or - haven't you noticed? Too distracted solving the murder?"

 

Too distracted by visions of her, perhaps. Sherlock flicks back through his memories of Mary. "Don't be ridiculous."

 

The Woman merely laughs.


End file.
